


Out of Your Control

by SxyMo0finMan



Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SxyMo0finMan/pseuds/SxyMo0finMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is under someone else’s control and can’t stop. He does something  he can never forgive himself and brings about the end of a bond that should have lasted forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Your Control

**Author's Note:**

> Author: SxyMo0finMan  
> Word Count: 1,841  
> Rating: T for blood  
> Warning: Character death  
> Author’s Note: So yeah, this is another fic that started out really good but ended poorly. Also, the summary is shit, but its 2 in the morning and I can’t be bothered. I started writing this after the Supernatural gods showed us the extended promo for 8x17’s Goodbye, Stranger. I was told that, for the most part, it’s eerily similar to the episode in some parts. Which is weird, because I’ve never even seen the episode yet. I didn’t want it to sway how I wrote this fic.

“Cas?” The name is whispered, tone tender, as a hand reaches out to touch his shoulder. The gesture is familiar and fills him with ease, a feeling of home. He wants to turn to the voice, to look deep into eyes like summer grass, crisp green bleeding into an amber gold, and know that he belongs. But something shocks him, moves through his system like a lightning bolt, incurring a violent strike.

 

He feels the bruising force of his knuckles crashing against a strong jaw, shattering bone and teeth. His knuckles sting and tingle, split skin knitting itself back together. He’s reeling; his body feels sluggish, like it’s out of his control. His clenched fist opens, silver angel blade gliding smoothly into place, fingers tightening on its hilt, power trembling through his quivering frame.

He looks down at the prone form of Dean Winchester, body crumpled on the cement floor. There’s blood on his face, nose crooked and dripping red, eyes pinched tight and lids fluttering. Something in his head clicks into place, registering the fact that he did this, that Dean is lying unconscious on the ground because of him.

He sucks in a reedy breath, air whistling in between his teeth. He wants to crumple to the ground, to reach out and fix what he’s done, but something locks his knees, keeps him upright. A voice echoes in his head. It’s soft and commanding, eliciting an immediate response from his body.

“He is a danger to our mission, Castiel. Dean Winchester is a liability that must be taken care of.”

His body goes into motion without his permission, taking a mechanical step toward Dean. He screams at himself to stop as he raises the angel blade, pointed tip in line with the Winchester’s chest. He tries his hardest to lock his arm and keep it still, to lower the blade and will it away, but something takes over his body, taps into his wiring and tweaks a few strings, keeping him in motion. He’s screaming inside his head now, his own voice growing in volume and almost succeeds in drowning out his puppeteer. He almost snaps himself free, but the binds close around him and rein him in as his voice disappears into chorus of “obey your orders”.

Dean lets out a groan, head lolling to the side as he pushes himself onto his back. A grimace of pain crumples his features, hand tentatively rising to press at his broken nose only to pause when he notices how the angel is poised. His eyes are cold, unseeing, the life in their blue depths subdued, his face a hard mask.

“Cas?” the Winchester begins, slowly pushing himself up with his opposite hand, ready to scoot out of the way if need be, but he’ll be damned if he just gives up without trying. “Cas, buddy, come on. This isn’t you. Please… Snap out of it.”

But he doesn’t. Dean’s voice passes over him like water, numbing and soothing yet unable to pull him from the depths of his inherent programming, the voice in his head plunging him deeper into the darkness and out of Dean’s reach. He raises the blade higher; his movements are staggered and slow, but still threatening. He hears Dean’s voice again, buzzing around his head like an annoying wayward insect, and watches as the Winchester scoots back an inch, hand outstretched with fingers splayed to try and ward the angel off. It’s futile; Dean is still in his range. Silver glides in a downward arc, piercing through worn leather and cotton and plunging deep into Dean’s chest.

He forces himself from the darkness, barreling towards consciousness, a noise ripping itself from his chest and echoes around the room. It’s a cry of dissent, a cry of pain and loss, of fear. He releases the hilt of the blade as if it burned him, stares in horror at what he’s done. There’s blood weeping steadily from Dean’s wound, staining the silver blade that protrudes from his chest like a thorn and soaking into the old leather.

“Dean?” he asks softly, dropping to his knees beside the other’s limp form. He repeats the name again, reaches out to touch Dean’s unwounded shoulder. His face crumples as he tries to hold back wave of emotion that threatens to crash over him and drown him, grief battering him against the rocks and shredding him apart. He’s about to leave this place, to give up when Dean lets out a gasp, his chest heaving hard as he frantically looks around the room. He was so sure that the other was dead, that he had killed him and, essentially, brought about a means to an end for himself as well.

He rushes into action immediately, stilling the other’s hand from trying to grip the blade. He squeezes Dean’s hand for a moment before releasing it, laying it to rest on Dean’s stomach, before gripping the angel blade himself. He whispers an apology before pulling the blade free, wanting so badly to shrink away and hide at the way Dean cries out, the sound choked as blood bubbles over Dean’s lip and stains pallid skin. There’s a gurgling sound whenever Dean takes a breath and the angel is sure that he had pierced a lung and that the hunter is most likely drowning in his blood, each breath becoming more ragged. He wills the angel blade away before laying a hand over the gaping wound in the hunter’s chest, a slight tremor to his fingers but he quells the shakes and focuses with all his might on healing the hole in Dean’s chest and all the damage that’s been done on the inside. But the light, filled with his grace and all of the healing capabilities of heaven, doesn’t immediately pool between his fingers.

“No,” he whispers, unbelieving that this could be happening, that he could be cut off. He tries again with both hands now, his fingers splayed just an inch over the gaping wound in Dean’s chest, trying to will even just the tiniest spark of heavenly light, but it’s not happening. He repeats his dissent, sweat dewing on his brow. It’s weird, utterly unnatural for him to even feel this cold, but there’s a chill and he can’t rid it; his skin feels tight, pinched, as if he’s ready to burst out of this flimsy barrier of flesh and bone. His hands begin to shake again and this time he can’t stop it, he’s straining so hard to just to bring about something that used to come with just a simple thought.

A hand grasps his wrists, fingers cold and clammy, the grip weak. He looks down to meet Dean’s gaze, a tiny sound escaping him full of all of the pain that is weighing down on him. There’s a tiny squeeze to his wrist before Dean lets him go, a slight smile on his lips. The hunter is trying his best to look brave for him, he knows. He can still see the tremor to his body, the sheen of sweat, and the way Dean’s chest heaves with each frantic and ever shortening breath.

“Dean, I… I didn’t…” He falters for words, unsure of how to explain what had happened. He doesn’t know how to put into words that he, a being filled with celestial intent and all of the power of heaven, was controlled into doing this, into harming the one person he held dear to him. The angel reaches forward to hesitantly touch the back of his knuckles to Dean’s cheek, his eyes pinching closed at how cold Dean’s skin feets. He stares down at the crooked nose, at the blood pooling there and gathering at the cleft of Dean’s upper lip, before closing his eyes again, wishing he could wipe all of this from his memory. “I wasn’t myself. I didn’t mea—“

“C..Cas,” Dean cuts in, a cough shuddering through him, more blood bubbling over his bottom lip. It’s everywhere, dripping down his chin and onto his collar, spreading from the wound in his chest and coloring the cement floor a haunting red. The angel opens his eyes to find that the world around him is blurring and swimming and he’s shocked to find tears, tears that he will refuse to let fall. He pinches his eyes closed for a moment before opening his eyes again, the world seemingly back to normal for all intents and purposes. He meets Dean’s gaze and is shocked at the determination he finds there. It’s the same determination he’s seen etched into Dean’s features when trying to keep the visions of hell at bay, when he’s trying to keep a calm face to keep Sam from panicking, and when he’s trying his damnedest to look his worst nightmares in the face without flinching. “Just… shut the fuck up for a moment would you?”

And the moment is ruined and he can’t help but smile slightly at how crass Dean could be even when he’s gasping for breath, each breath filling his lung with frothing blood that seeps out through a wound he’d created. Dean lets out a soft chuckle before leaning his head back against the cement, taking in a shuddering breath. It’s hard for him to keep his head up to look at the angel, the hunter’s body so weak he couldn’t maintain eye contact for long.

"Cas,” Dean begins again picking his head up from the ground. He’s about to let his head flop back against the hard ground when the angel moves to place a hand behind the hunter’s head, keeping Dean’s head propped up and bringing them closer so that their foreheads are almost touching. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

“But, Dean. I—“

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says. He’s about to say more, about to tell the angel that he doesn’t blame him and that he doesn’t want him to feel like this is his fault. He wants to say that the angel shouldn’t blame himself for something that was out of his control. That he loves the angel like family, no more than that, and that no matter what, that will never change. But he goes into a coughing fit that wracks his frame and causes the angel to pull back slightly so as to give Dean more space. As the fit subsides, the hunter becomes limp in his hold, head heavy against his palm. He knows they are nearing the end of a bond that should have been everlasting. He watches as the light begins to fade in Dean’s eyes and that the once verdant green of his irises becomes a dull and listless imitation of what it used to be. He presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, feels Dean’s last breath ghost across his lips. The hunter’s final words loop through his head on and endless playlist, a tear dripping silently down his nose to drip off and mingle with the blood drying on cracked, half-open lips.

“It’s okay.”


End file.
